


Maybe Even for the First Time

by glassclosetcastiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse of Angel Powers, Allusions to smut, Angst and Humor, CAS IS DEAN'S COLETTE, Charlie Ships It, Coda, Coming Out, Drinking Games, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Flirting, Episode: s10e18 Book of the Damned, Fix-It, Love Confessions, M/M, Mark of Cain, Mildly Canon Divergent, Misunderstandings, Never Have I Ever, Sam is a Little Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 14:09:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4140681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glassclosetcastiel/pseuds/glassclosetcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've finally, <i>finally</i> made it to this point—after years of staring matches and sleepless nights, fighting and aching and <i>hoping</i>, after Raphael and the apocalypse and <i>motherfucking purgatory</i>, all of the shit they've been through together—they've finally made it here, and Cas has to be a fucking <i>gentleman</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe Even for the First Time

**Author's Note:**

> This is an obscenely belated Book of the Damned coda. It's canon divergent in that I'm pretending that Sammy didn't just go behind his brother's back and do something stupid again, because for five minutes we had them all together, safe and healthy and alive, and I want them all to be happy, too.
> 
> I apologize in advance for the whiplash you're about to endure. It's gonna go from reallllly angsty to reallllly fluffy to almost smutty and back to sappy in a moment's time. But it's a well-documented fact that I can't write smut to save my life, so you just have to know that that's what you're getting yourself into.
> 
> Also- I don't drink, so I apologize if any of this seems unrealistic. I must give thanks to Jo and Christina and a contingent of the ECKC for their help with calculating the exact amount of alcohol that would get Dean Winchester drunk. I also owe huge thanks, as always, to Becca for her ridiculous amount of help and cheerleading and constant support. Thanks also to Ash and Tennyo for their help and for the beta.
> 
> Title is from the confession scene from Paint it Black.

It’s been a long-ass day, and that’s saying something when you’re a Winchester. Dean is in a constant state of sensory overload, resulting in both a thrumming, anticipatory energy and a crushing, bone-deep exhaustion that makes him ache for rest while leaving him completely incapable of experiencing any.

Charlie happily volunteers to accompany him on a food run; maybe sensing that he and Sam need their space. Probably a little wary of letting him go off on his own to stew in his thoughts. Dean doesn’t mind the babysitter routine for once. Her presence is enough of a distraction that he can almost ignore the shitstorm of sensations—pretend not to notice that itch in his brain that’s impossible to scratch.

On the way to the store, Sam texts him to let him know that Cas stopped by, and that he got his grace back. Charlie lets out a literal squeal of excitement when she reads the message out to him as he drives. Dean tries to ignore the mixed emotions that well up at the thought of Cas being Castiel, fully-powered-up Angel of the Lord, once again.

They stop by the Gas ‘n Sip, and Dean successfully avoids going inside by pretending to refill the Impala. She’s got a nearly full tank, but he tops her off anyway. Charlie comes out a few minutes later, hefting a few plastic bags. “Got some beer, some snacks, a two-liter of Mountain Dew for myself, _thank you very much_ ,” she says. Dean winces when she heaves the six-pack of beer onto the hood of the Impala so she can open the door, mindless of the potential for scratches and dents. 

“We got beer back at the bunker,” he grouses, closing the tank and settling the pump back in its cradle.

“Yeah, but you don’t have _this_ beer,” Charlie explains. She’s got a smirk on her face that Dean doesn’t like, but he lets it go for now. 

She directs him to the nearest pizza place, calling in an order for pick-up along the way. One meat-lovers for Dean, one veggie for Princess Sam, and a half pineapple, half pepperoni for herself (“and for Cas, because who doesn’t love pepperoni?” she explains, though he doesn’t have the heart to tell her the guy doesn’t need to eat anymore.)

The smell of cheese and dough and spicy toppings fills the cab on the way home, but even the promise of greasy deliciousness isn’t enough to settle Dean’s nerves. Charlie must sense his tension. She fills the silence with chatter, and he tries to relax into it.

They arrive at the bunker too soon. Dean dawdles, pretending to search for something in the trunk, telling Charlie to go ahead—he’ll grab the pizzas. She gives him a look like she wants to say something, but takes the Gas ‘n Sip bags and heads inside without another word. Dean wills the Mark to calm down—tries to tamp down the anger and fear and rage that all become amplified when he’s stressed or tired or worked up (which is nearly all the time, these days). He wouldn’t mind blowing up at Sammy—kid has it coming—but he doesn’t want to snap at Charlie, and he definitely doesn’t want to give Cas any excuse to go flapping off. Not that he can anymore, but still. He takes a few deep breaths and lets the trunk down carefully, then grabs the pizzas and heads out of the garage.

From the looks of it when Dean enters the bunker, Cas has already been introduced to Charlie. The familiarity of the expression he’s come to think of as ‘Cas face’—furrowed brow and a squint—lightens his mood a bit. “Hey, look who decided to show,” he calls down the stairs, hefting the pizza boxes as he descends. “So? You’re back? 100%?” He passes Cas on the way to the table, avoiding the inevitable staring contest. “How did that happen?”

“Um, it was Hannah,” Cas replies. “She managed to get the location of the remainder of my Grace out of Metatron.”

Dean nods along, arranging the pizza boxes on the war room table and trying to be happy for him. He ignores the lick of fire that goes up his arm at the mention of Hannah. Maybe it's irrational to keep hanging on to this anger toward her after she sort of shucked her dickish tendencies and finally helped Cas out back when… well. Back _then_. Even so, Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever forgive her for making Cas choose between Heaven and Dean Winchester. Again. The poor, stupid bastard.

He can think of some choice words about Hannah, but instead he says, “Awesome. I told you we were due for a win.” He ignores the urge to grab onto Cas and just feel him there, solid and sturdy and healthy, like he had back in Purgatory. That’s the mistake he made before—letting himself get too attached. Castiel is back up and running, and he’ll be raring to go lead heavenly armies again in no time. So Dean claps him briefly on the back, firing off a, “Good to have you back, pal,” over his shoulder.

\--

Having Charlie around is, for lack of a better term, a godsend. She lightens the mood considerably, plying them all with beers from the sixpack she bought at the Gas ‘n Sip—“Try it, Dean! I have a hunch that you’ll love it!”—and steering the conversation easily into lighthearted territories. She spoils the third season finale of Game of Thrones, and Sam throws his pizza crust at her face. “I’m sorry!” she moans. “I thought you were caught up!”

Maybe it’s the beer, or the comfort food, or maybe it’s the fact that they’re all there together, safe and alive and happy—but Dean feels himself relaxing in a way that he hasn’t been able to in months. At some point, he notices that Cas has taken off his coat, and damn it if his chest doesn’t ache with the unbidden hope that _maybe he’ll hang out for a while_. Maybe—

But maybes and hopes are dangerous. Dean downs the rest of his beer and sets it aside. “Dude,” Sam says, picking up Dean’s empty bottle and holding it close to his face. “A taste of heaven,” he reads, snorting a laugh.

Dean turns to Charlie—sees the way the tips of her ears have gone pink, even though she’s pretending to be deeply engrossed in some origami shit with a discarded napkin—and shakes his head. _Fuckin’ Charlie_ , he thinks. Of course she knows. It doesn’t surprise him, though. Not really. He thinks back to a dressing room in a department store, the way she side-eyed him and called Cas “dreamy,” waiting for him to agree. He hadn’t taken the bait, and he won’t do it now.

“Gonna grab another round,” he says, pushing back from the table. “Who wants one?”

“I’m good,” Charlie says, nudging her elbow toward her half-empty bottle. Sam just raises a finger and says, “yo.”

“Cas?” Dean asks, and he’s met with a different Cas face—the one that only ever seems to be directed at him.

His blue eyes are soft when he nods and says, “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

\--

After the pizza is gone and they’ve demolished two six-packs between the four of them (Dean suspects that Cas is only drinking to be polite), Charlie and Cas sit hunched together over a paper fortune-teller. Dean hasn’t seen one of those things in twenty years, but he knows the drill. He’s nervous about whatever Charlie wrote on the flaps—envisioning things like “you will marry Dean Winchester and live happily ever after”—but Cas is smiling and laughing, so the worry doesn’t hang around.

He and Sam have been casting glances in each other’s direction, each while the other isn’t looking. Eventually, Dean decides, fuck it. Maybe the alcohol’s going to his head, but he can’t stay mad at Sam forever. He knows from experience that he’d sell his damn soul if it meant keeping Sammy out of trouble. He can’t expect Sam to do any different. 

“You remember that time when Dad found your diary?” he asks Sam, whose surprise quickly turns to relief, and then to playful anger.

“Dude, it was not a diary! It was a journal, and you know it.” They go back and forth for a bit, and just like that, everything is alright. Not perfect—not by a longshot—but alright.

Since Charlie’s small and had only a slice and a half of pizza to Dean and Sam’s four slices each, it comes as little surprise when she suddenly shouts her desire to play ‘Never Have I Ever.’ Dean groans and Sam laughs. Cas squints at her.

“Come on! It’ll be fun,” she insists. She’s bordering on the edge of silly-drunk, which apparently means that she uses more dramatic hand gestures and seems to forget what her inside voice is. “Besides—” she swings an arm around Cas’ shoulders, “gotta learn all about my new BFF Cas, here.” She plants a kiss on his temple with a loud “MWAH!” and lets him go. Cas looks at Dean helplessly. Dean just laughs.

“What is ‘Never Have I Ever?” Cas asks, using finger quotes.

“It’s a drinking game!” Charlie calls over her shoulder before disappearing down the hall.

“Do you know where you’re going?” Sam shouts, and waits only a second before shaking his head and following her out the doorway.

Dean feels pleasantly buzzed, and the Mark has all but quieted completely on his arm. He takes pity on Cas and his still-confused face, explaining, “It's just a dumb party game, man. Someone starts out by saying something they’ve never done, and if you’ve done it, you gotta take a drink. We don’t have to play,” he adds, but Cas just smiles and shrugs. It’s such a human gesture. Dean can’t help but smile back.

“Alright!” Charlie shouts from the doorway, clinking down four shot glasses. Dean wonders where the fuck she found them. Sam is close behind with a bottle of chilled vodka that Dean knows came from his private stash in the back of the industrial refrigerator. “Who wants to start?”

“By all means,” Sam gestures to her with his free hand while he fills the shot glasses halfway. He sets one in front of each of them, and puts the uncapped bottle in the middle of the table.

Charlie makes an exaggerated thinking face, twiddling her fingers together and humming. “Leeeet’s see,” she drawls. “Never have I ever… died and come back to life!”

Cas starts to reach for his shot, but Dean stops him. “Hold up—yes you have,” he reminds Charlie. “Remember, last year? Wicked Witch?”

“Oh shit, you’re right!” Charlie says. Disregarding any sense of order, she grabs her shot and tosses it back, hissing. Cas follows suit.

Sam turns to look at Dean, doing a remarkable impression of the Cas face. “Um. What?”

Fuck. “Right,” Dean says, reaching for his own shot. He shoots it back and pauses, feeling the burn down his throat. “That was, uh. Back during the whole… Gadreel… thing,” he says. He looks up at Sam, expecting him to be angry at the mention of the angel, but Sam just scoffs and takes his shot. He nods once at Dean, as if to say, _it’s alright_. Dean nods back, and that’s another knot in his chest that’s come untied.

“Sam’s turn!” Charlie says, sloshing more vodka into the shot glasses, filling them all to the brim.

“Alright,” Sam muses. “Never have I ever… smoked pot.”

Dean snorts, disbelieving. “Not even once? In college?” He reaches for his over-filled glass and knocks it back in one go. Sam just shakes his head.

Charlie chokes a little trying to down her whole shot at once, and Cas pats her on the back until she stops coughing. “Do alternate timelines count?” he asks, and Charlie breaks into a fit of giggles that soon transforms into more coughing. Cas smacks her back again in sympathy.

“No, thank god,” Dean mutters, refilling his and Charlie’s glasses and wondering how the fuck Cas knew about that. He doesn’t ask.

“Your turn!” Charlie shouts, reaching across the table in an attempt to pat him on the arm. She misses by about a foot, and Dean slides the vodka bottle out of her way.

“Okay. Never have I ever…” he pauses, thinking. He’s done a lot of shit. He narrows his eyes at Cas, realizing that, though he’ll never get drunk off of just one bottle of vodka, he’s gotta have someone take him down a peg. It makes perfect sense in his mind, where everything is pleasantly hazy around the edges. “Never have I ever flown. With my own wings.”

Cas narrows his eyes at Dean across the table. “That was unfair,” he says, and throws his shot back. Charlie turns her gaze to him in wonder.

“Dude, that is so fucking cool, Cas. Like,” she gestures vaguely, mouth working to form a thought that her brain can’t process. “Like. Amazing. You gotta…” she trails off, reaching out to grab the vodka bottle and refilling his glass. “You gotta fly me somewhere sometime, okay? It’ll be like a magic carpet ride.”

Cas smiles down at her fondly, and something warm blooms in Dean’s chest. “Your turn, Cas,” he says.

Cas frowns in concentration, looking more like he's facing down an apocalyptic conundrum than a stupid drinking game. "I've never..." he trails off, and Charlie leans into his space.

"The point of the game, Casti-elll," she begins, smiling up at him coyly, "is to get the rest of us drunk first. So you've gotta try to choose things you know the three of us have done." She starts drawing a figure eight pattern on his sleeve with her finger, and Dean and Sam share a laugh. _She's a flirty drunk_ , Dean realizes with sudden amusement, _and it doesn't really seem to matter with whom._

"So like," she continues, "you could say, 'never have I ever gotten a tattoo,' or 'never have I ever kissed a girl.'"

Cas frowns again. "But I've done both of those things," he reasons.

Charlie gasps and smacks him hard on the arm. "No fuckin' way!" she exclaims, and Dean amends his assessment to 'profane flirty drunk.' "Lemme see!" she says, reaching for the buttons on his shirt.

To Dean's surprise, Cas just laughs and playfully bats her hands away. "It's down here," he explains, standing and untucking his shirt. He pulls the hem up to his chest and angles his body, allowing Charlie to skim her finger over the Enochian symbols along his side. 

Dean lets his eyes linger a little over the tanned skin of his stomach, the sharp jut of his hipbone, until he has to shift a little in his seat. He tears his eyes away and takes a pull off of his beer just to have something to do. He knows Sam's eyes are on him, but he doesn't look. "Alright, alright," he says. "Come on Cas, anything. What haven't you done?"

Castiel tilts his head for a moment before a look of triumph crosses his face. "Never have I ever been a human _child_ ," he says, looking very pleased with himself. 

"No fair," Charlie says, though she downs her shot with gusto. "Okay, my turn again!" she exclaims as she over-fills the three empty glasses. "Never have I ever..." she trails off and seems to get lost in thought. "Oh! Never have I ever kissed a boy!"

Dean breathes a sigh of relief, realizing he really never has, when Sam suddenly reaches out and grabs his glass. He smirks at Dean in challenge before tossing it back.

Dean can't seem to close his mouth, and Charlie doesn't seem to be able to contain her sudden excitement. "Oh my god, yesss Sammy!" Charlie shouts, leaning her whole upper body across the table and trying to grab his face. "Yesss!"

Sam turns to face Dean in his seat and gives a noncommittal little shrug. "That was one thing I did try in college."

A laugh escapes Dean, and Sam lets out a nervous laugh in return. Dean feels light as air all of a sudden. _Sammy kissed boys in college_ , he thinks, draining the last of his beer. _Well, ain't that a fuckin' trip_.

They go around the table once more, everyone but Cas taking shots on Dean's 'never have I ever taken the SAT,' and Charlie's 'never have I ever blacked out drinking.' Dean thinks about stopping the game while he's feeling good and toasty and before Charlie does black out for the first time, but he lets Sammy have another turn first.

"Okay, okay," Sam says with a laugh. He's not hammered yet, but he's on his way. "I got one. Never have I ever had sex with a dude."

Before his brain has time to process what's happening, Dean opens his mouth. "Define sex." 

_Oh, shit_.

He clamps a hand over his mouth, but it’s too late. There’s a moment of blessed silence in which Dean closes his eyes and pretends he’s somewhere far away, or else dead—both of which are much better alternatives to his current reality. He opens his eyes slowly, grimacing at everyone’s expressions.

“Um,” Sam says, and cracks into a wide smile. Charlie snorts and breaks into another hysterical fit of giggles.

Dean lifts his eyes to Cas, and sees that same private look that he’s seen so many times before. The one that says, _you’re wonderful, and you’re worthy, and I’m proud of you_ , and all of that other shit that Dean can’t handle and doesn’t believe. But he thinks back to a confessional booth—to the dawning realization that he could die any day, that his time on this earth as _Dean Winchester_ is slipping through his fingers like the last few grains of sand through an hourglass. _There’s things… people… feelings that I want to experience differently_ , he remembers confessing. The resolve is still there when he looks at Cas, and thinks, _maybe even for the first time_.

“Blowjobs count,” Charlie pipes up through her giggles. And because he’s playing a fuckin’ drinking game with the people he loves most in this world, and because he could go dark any day, and because Sammy kissed boys in college and it was _no goddamn big deal_ , Dean reaches out and grabs his shot and downs it, just like that. Sam and Charlie erupt into cheers and applause, and Dean covers his face with his hand to hide the redness of his cheeks.

“If I had to go straight for a dude, though,” Charlie says, a moment later, “I’d _definitely_ choose Jason Momoa. Because, hashtag, lesbihonest.” Dean can’t believe she just said ' _hashtag_ ' out loud, but he recognizes the subject change for what it is. He sends out a silent 'thank you' to her.

Sam directs a proud smile in Dean’s direction before turning to Charlie and admitting that, while Jason Momoa is definitely attractive, he’s much more into blondes, so Nikolaj Coster-Waldau is his Game of Thrones mancrush. Dean only spares a moment’s thought about that, because seriously, _in what fuckin’ universe is that Lannister asshole hotter than Drogo_ , before catching Cas’ eye again. The look he’s giving Dean—like he’s the only thing worth looking at in the whole goddamn bunker—sends a shiver up his spine.

"My turn,” Dean interrupts the other two, but they’re too engrossed in comparing their ‘dudes I’d go straight for/dudes I’d go gay for’ lists to hear him. He refills his shot glass until it spills over, nervous anticipation making him shake. Setting the bottle back down, he makes eye contact with Cas again and holds it.  
“Never have I ever fantasized about my best friend,” he says.

Cas doesn’t hesitate to down his shot, steely gaze never leaving Dean’s, and _damn it if that isn’t the hottest fuckin’ thing he’s ever seen_.  
I lied, Dean thinks at Cas, abusing the angel's ability to hear prayer, and knocks his own shot back. He watches as Cas’ eyes go wide at the admission, tracking the movement of Dean’s tongue as he licks his lips clean.

Dean’s eyes never leave Cas’ as he says, “Whaddya say we call it a night,” loudly enough to break up the conversation. Cas lowers his gaze to the table, lips quirking up in an almost imperceptible smile. Sam clears his throat and pushes his chair back from the table.

"Uh, yeah, yeah,” Sam casts a meaningful glance between the two of them. “Charlie,” he says, walking around the table and helping her up. “Let’s get you to bed. You can share with me tonight, how’s that sound?”

"Slumber partayy!” Charlie shouts, allowing Sam to steer her toward the doorway by her shoulders. “Can I braid your hair, Sammy?” she asks. Sam shakes his head and calls out a “‘Night, guys!” as they go.

The suddenly silent room is thick with tension. Dean can feel it crackling like electricity under his skin. “You lied,” Cas says, eventually.

There’s only about a half-inch of vodka left in the bottle, so Dean drains the rest by refilling his and Cas’ shot glasses. He holds his up in invitation. “I did,” he admits, thinking, _sometimes, when humans want something really, really badly..._

Cas clinks Dean’s glass with his own and they drink, maintaining curious eye contact. “Help me put this shit away,” Dean says after a moment, standing up and managing to only sway a little bit.

Dean can feel Cas behind him on the way to the kitchen—can feel his eyes on the back of his head like they’re boring into his skull. When they get there, he drops the empty pizza boxes on the nearest flat surface and turns, taking a moment for the room to stop spinning before crowding Cas up against the refrigerator.

"Dean,” Cas growls. Dean can feel the reverberations all the way down to his toes.

"Yeah, Cas?” he asks, bracketing his hands around Cas’ head. He licks his lips again, experimentally, and Cas stares, transfixed, at Dean’s mouth.

"You are intoxicated,” Cas notes, breathily.

"So?” Dean asks. The Mark pulses once, hungrily. He doesn’t wait for a reply before closing the distance between them.

The kiss is rough and uncoordinated and brief, and Cas’ hands come up to cup his face for a moment before dropping to his shoulders and sliding down his arms. He grips Dean’s biceps and pushes gently until Dean’s mouth is forced to break with his. “Dean,” he growls again, stern. They’re inches apart, and Dean can see the way his pupils have blown out, can hear the shallow breaths he’s taking even though he doesn’t need the oxygen. “As much as I would very much like to continue this,” Cas says, “you are heavily intoxicated, and you are going to regret this in the morning.”

" _Fucking_ ,” Dean huffs, “shut up, Cas.” He tries to dive back in, but Cas holds him just out of reach with incredible ease. Dean groans in frustration.

They've finally, _finally_ made it to this point—after years of staring matches and sleepless nights, fighting and aching and _hoping_ , after Raphael and the apocalypse and _motherfucking purgatory_ , all of the shit they've been through together—they've finally made it here, and Cas has to be a fucking _gentleman_.

Dean isn't sure if he said all of that out loud or just thought it really hard, but either way, Cas huffs a laugh, massaging Dean's arms with his thumbs. "I know," Cas says, fond smile back on his face. "I'm sorry. But you'll thank me in the morning."

Dean can feel his arousal fading fast, quickly being replaced with something much deeper and infinitely more terrifying. He looks down at Cas for a moment, searching his face. "You'll stay until then?" he asks, well past the point of caring about his dignity.

Cas smiles his private smile—the one that's just for Dean—and nods, once. "As long as you'll have me," he promises, and leans forward to press a chaste kiss to Dean's lips.

\--

Dean can't remember the last time he was so comfortable. Despite his memory foam mattress, most nights are spent tossing and turning, thrashing with feverish nightmares spurred on by the Mark. But now, as he slowly floats up out of the murky depths of unconsciousness, he realises that he can't remember having dreamt at all. He feels so well-rested. So _warm_.

He curls into himself in the fetal position for another moment, trying to ease his way back into sleep, but to no avail. Sighing, he cracks first one eye open, then the next, and is suddenly very unsurprised to find that he's not alone in bed. Cas' crystal blue eyes gaze over at him from a respectful distance away, unblinking.

"Good morning, Dean," he says, face carefully neutral.

Dean rolls onto his back and digs the heels of his palms into his eye sockets. "Hey, Cas," he croaks, voice raspy with disuse.

"Nothing happened,” Cas tells him, and just like that, the memories of last night come flooding back.

Admitting to having had sex with dudes. Getting drunk and flirting with Cas. Coming on to Cas. Trying to make out with Cas. Breaking down and begging Cas to stay in bed with him, even if they didn’t cuddle or anything. _Son of a bitch_.

Dean shuts his eyes again and lets out a slow, deep breath, taking stock of the situation. Yeah, he basically came out to everyone or whatever, but Charlie apparently already knew, and Sammy kissed boys in college, and Cas is _utterly indifferent to sexual orientation_. Yes, he flirted with Cas, but he recalls now that Cas was making eyes at him first. And yeah, alright, maybe he _did_ come on to Cas and try to maybe get in his pants, but he remembers the way Cas kissed back, however briefly. Remembers the soft feel of Cas’ hands cupping his cheeks, sliding down his shoulders. Remembers how Cas said, _as much as I would_ very much _like to continue this_ , but wouldn’t allow it to go any further for fear of regret on Dean’s part. He huffs a laugh despite himself, thinking _if Cas only knew_.

Dean opens his eyes again, hating the hint of uncertainty on Cas’ face. “For the record,” he says, “I wouldn’t have minded if something _had_ happened.”

Cas somehow manages to cock his head even while horizontal, squinting as if he didn’t hear Dean properly. “Are you still intoxicated?” he asks. Dean groans.

“No, you asshole,” he says, pushing up onto his right elbow so he can look at Cas properly. “I wasn’t even that drunk last night. I meant all of it.”

Cas seems to consider this for a moment, and Dean huffs in frustration. “Look. I know I haven’t been the best at addressing… this,” Dean says, gesturing between them, “but this thing on my arm could take me any goddamn day, and I don’t want to die knowin’ I could have had something with you and didn’t because I was too chickenshit to tell you how I feel.”

Cas props himself on his left elbow, mirroring Dean’s position. “How do you feel?” he asks, voice barely more than a whisper.

“I feel like a damn live wire whenever you’re around,” Dean confesses. “When I see you, I feel like there’s something… more. Like maybe I wasn’t put on this earth just to go down swinging. I look at you, and I think, _yeah_ , you know. Maybe Sammy’s on to something. Maybe we can let ourselves be happy, sometimes.”

Cas frowns at him, looking very much like the warrior of Heaven that Dean remembers from that first year, from that barn in Illinois. “You are so much more than you think you are, Dean,” he says, closing the distance between them in an instant.

Dean finds himself in the reverse of last night’s position, Cas holding him firmly down into the mattress by straddling his hips. Dean surges up to meet him with a groan, thinking, _fucking finally_. They’re not hesitant—the last six years have been foreplay enough, goddamn it. Dean tries to make up for lost time by taking Cas deeper, holding tighter, growling his name louder. Cas seems to be on the same page.

A few breathless minutes pass before Dean pulls his face away and finds himself staring at Cas, seeing the power and the awesomeness behind the human skin— looking at the many-headed beast, the wave of celestial intent, the being the size of the Chrysler Building, all contained within this body he's come to love—and Dean knows, unequivocally, that he wants to be strapped to that comet for the rest of his existence. “Cas,” he huffs, pulling Cas’ tie loose and going for the buttons on his shirt, “I lo-”

“Guys! Wake up! Breakfast!” Sam’s voice comes from just outside the door. He raps out a little pattern of knocks on the wall of Dean’s bedroom as he goes.

“Goddamnit!” Dean shouts, falling back into his pillows. 

For his part, Cas looks just as frustrated. “I’m going to have a talk with your brother,” he says, stern voice doing wonders for Dean in the wake of the rude interruption.

“Yeah, alright,” Dean breathes, whipping Cas’ tie off in one fluid motion. “But first.”

Cas stops his hands on his belt buckle, eyes steely and soft all at once. “But first,” Cas agrees, bringing Dean’s left hand up to his mouth and kissing his knuckles—unhurried, like they have all the time in the world. “I believe you were about to say something.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hey on [tumblr](http://glassclosetcastiel.tumblr.com)!


End file.
